... There's a joy,To the fond votaries of fame unknown,To hear the still small voice of conscience speakIn whisp'ring plaudit to the silent soul.
O for a Booke and a shadie nooke, eyther in-a-doore or out; With the grene leaves whisp'ring overhede, or the Streete cries all about. Where I maie Reade all at my ease, both of the Newe and Olde; For a jollie goode Booke whereon to looke, is better to me than Golde.
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